


Defence Against the Dark Arts

by Northumbrian



Series: Nineteen Years and Beyond [51]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts, Other, Post-Hogwarts, School, Short, Teaching, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-09 04:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12880614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northumbrian/pseuds/Northumbrian
Summary: Several years after the battle, Hogwarts invites a couple of highly qualified experts to give lectures on lycanthropy and vampirism.





	1. Lycanthropy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Defence Against the Dark Arts - Лекции по Защите от Темных Искусств](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13248537) by [Altra_Realta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altra_Realta/pseuds/Altra_Realta)



**Lycanthropy**

It is the first day of June. The sun is high and bright, and the blue sky teases the promise of summer. When I left my cottage in Kent, the day was a lot warmer. Here, a wild Highland wind chills my bare legs, spiting the sun and reminding me how far north I am. There is one benefit to being at this latitude. As summer approaches the days are longer. Most would agree that’s a good thing. For me, however, the short nights are more important.

As I approach my old school, the stiletto heels of my expensive taupe ankle boots sink into the gravel. My blue suede pencil-line skirt is barely above my knees, forcing me into short and rapid steps. A tight-fitting, buff, round necked sweater and a tan leather jacket round off my outfit. My clothes are impractical for my day job—unless I’m working undercover. I smile to myself at that thought; perhaps, in a way, I am working undercover.

I’ve never stood in front of a class before, but I’m not nervous. My boyfriend has twice listened to my lecture. After each performance, Mark made a number of suggestions, all of which I’ve incorporated into the final version. Mark wants me to succeed, he knows how important this is to me. He helped me to pick out my outfit, too, right down to my underwear. Nothing too revealing, and definitely no cleavage. He was very firm about that, which is unusual; Mark is usually as firm as a comfort blanket.

I walk up the steps to the great double doors. Although I visit the Hogwarts grounds for the memorial service every year, I can’t remember the last time I entered the school itself. As I step into the entrance hall, I look up; that’s a mistake.

_My abdomen is on fire, and my robes are wet. As I fall, see a trail of ruby pearls glistening in my wake. My lifeblood beads in the air, following my fall._

I pull my gaze down from the balcony, and concentrate on the doors leading into the Great Hall.

_The room of where the dead lie._

I’m all alone in the place I almost died. Memories of that terrible day attempt to overwhelm me. In an effort to divert myself, I try to block out the sights. Instead. I concentrate on what I can hear. In the Great Hall, carefree children chatter. My stilettos tick-tick on the stone-flagged floor as I move toward those comfortingly ordinary sounds.

I reach the doors. Inside, an audience awaits. It’s time to perform. Straightening my skirt and locking away my nightmares, I push open the door. My hips swing and I sashay into the Great Hall. The bold Gryffindor takes control, and I exude a confidence that, fortunately, becomes more real with every step.

The Ravenclaws and Slytherins sit to my right, and the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors are to my left. The lunchtime hubbub falls into murmurs. My Muggle clothes get me noticed. Looking around at the staring faces I smile, and stroll towards the top table. Directly ahead of me, the Headmistress watches. Despite her promotion, she remains as earthy and untidy as ever. How can any woman care so little about her appearance?

She hauls herself to her feet. ‘Auror Brown. You’re early!’ Her smile is wide, but her surprise at my arrival—an hour before my lecture is due to start—is unmistakeable.

‘Good afternoon, Professor Sprout.’ I nod politely at the Headmistress.

Turning left, I make my way along the top table to join the teaching staff. There are many unfamiliar faces seated along the table, and one who is very familiar. He’s near the end of the table, where his seat allows him to look down the line of Gryffindors. He stands, and smiles. Shuffling his chair sideways, he conjures a seat for me.

As I approach, he smiles and holds out a hand in greeting. I’ve known him for sixteen years. We shared classroom and common room for the first seven. I fought alongside him, and we still meet regularly at the memorial service, the Dumbledore’s Army reunion, and Harry and Ginny’s New Year Party. He can’t be serious. In all those years I’ve never shaken his hand!

‘Hello, handsome,’ I say loudly. Stepping past his outstretched hand I grab his lapels, pull myself up, and plant my lips on his. The great hall falls silent, Hogwarts’ latest Herbology Professor blushes crimson, and our audience explodes. Neville is lovely, and very easy to embarrass.

‘Professor Longbottom and Auror Brown are old friends,’ the Headmistress fails to quiet her pupils. ‘And, for those who don’t know, Auror Brown is here to lecture our NEWT level students on werewolves.’

‘ _She’s_ the werewolf Auror?’ someone calls out in disbelief. The comment comes from the Gryffindor table, and it is easy to spot the culprit. Everyone around has turned toward the voice. The solidly built teen has thick black hair and bushy eyebrows. She looks surprised by the attention she’s getting.

‘I am,’ I admit. ‘I’m not a big hairy brute all the time!’ The girl turns away and hides her face.

‘Damn it, Lavender,’ Neville scolds me. ‘Avril has a lot of issues, and most of them are about her appearance.’

I’ve let him down. The disappointed look on Neville’s face is too much like Mark’s, or Harry’s, for me to consider making up an excuse. Besides, doing so would break a rule I’ve followed since my seventh year: never lie to Neville! I tell him the truth.

‘Sorry, Nev,’ I say contritely. ‘I had flashbacks when I arrived, and she reminded me of the Bullstrode. I’ll apologise to her after lunch.’

* * *

The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom is packed. The sixteen to eighteen-year-olds in front of me shuffle and chatter excitedly. There are many more than I expected. Avril (who is in her sixth year) refused to speak to me. Perhaps she’s afraid of the wolf. Fortunately, Neville passed on my apology to her, and he says she has accepted it. He seems to be correct. She is sitting in the front row, staring at me.

Tonight, the moon is full. The wolf in me is strong, and my wolf’s nose inhales a pungent mix of sweat, anxiety, and hormones. Behind them lie other scents. I pick up faint whiffs of fear, death, and wolf. Given the number of obfuscatory odours, it is impossible for me to sniff out the few who are genuinely frightened of me without being obvious. Not even I could get away with sniffing every pupil. The other scents are easier. I glance up at the rafters, the sight of a single bat is confirmation. My eyes sweep back down. I can’t be certain, but I glance at Avril and nod.

Pulling out my wand, I clear my throat and tap the pile of parchment in front of me. The sheets fly off, distributing themselves among the pupils, and the chattering reduces to a few whispers. I wait for a moment, but none of the papers return. I am facing at least seventy-five students.

‘Anyone _not_ have one of these?’ I ask, holding up my own copy of the Briefing Note. Three hands are raised; there are seventy-eight students in the room. Using the Doubling Charm, I make three more copies and send them across to the upraised hands. That done, I lift my own copy of ABN12, wave it, and begin.

‘This is the current version of Auror Briefing Note 12: Werewolves. I’m Lavender Brown, Order of Merlin, Second Class. I’m an Auror, and a werewolf, and I co-wrote this briefing note. I’m not going to read it to you, because that would be boring. It’s written for Aurors who can’t be bothered to read long reports, and it contains everything you need to know about werewolves on one handy sheet.’

Turning, I flick my wand. The old Ministry illustration and its legend, “Werewolf in its human form” appears on the wall behind me. The man is hairy, clawed, and hunchbacked. He barely looks human. I put my hands on my hips, and dare them to make a comment about me. No one does.

‘This was the illustration in the textbooks when I was at school. It’s wrong. Werewolves don’t look like that, they look like me, or you!’ I point at a random boy in the middle of the classroom. Avril is relieved that I didn’t pick on her.

‘When’s the next full moon?’ I ask the boy.

‘Tonight,’ he tells me.

‘Correct,’ I say. ‘Perhaps you _are_ a werewolf! Can you feel it your bones? I can.’

He shakes his head and, while his friends tease him, I continue.

‘Tonight is a good night. Here at Hogwarts, sunset is at ten, moonrise is quarter to midnight, moonset is at about quarter past four, and sunrise is fifteen minutes later. Can anyone tell me how long I must be a werewolf this month?’

Several hands shoot up, one waving eagerly. Ignoring it, I point at one of the boys. He counts on his fingers. ‘Sunset is ten. Eleven, twelve, one, two, three, four, four-thirty—six-and-a-half hours.’

‘Wrong.’ I shake my head. In the front row, the over-eager hand shoots up, again waving frantically. The girl is blonde and bespectacled. While she bares no physical resemblance to my former dorm-mate, her actions make me smile. I nod at her.

‘It’s the moon that’s important, not darkness.’ The girl speaks with Hermione-like precision. ‘You _must_ change when there’s a _full_ moon in the _night_ sky.’ Her short sentence covers everything. ‘Four-and-a-half hours,’ she concludes. She, too, has fallen into my trap. Hermione wouldn’t have, she would have listened to my question. Two seats away from the blonde, Avril squirms. I’m certain she knows the answer.

‘You’re right,’ I tell the blonde. ‘But you haven’t answered the question I asked. Can you enlighten her, Avril?’

‘Um…’

I give her a smile of encouragement.

‘Tanya’s forgotten the blue moon,’ Avril says quietly.

The blue moon! Now I’m almost certain.

‘Exactly.’ I admit my deception to everyone. ‘It was a trick question. I asked how long _must_ I be a werewolf this _month_. Do you want to correct your answer, Tanya?’

‘Blue moon! Two full moons this month.’ Tanya’s tone tells me she hates being wrong.

‘I only know that because I’m a werewolf,’ I reassure her. ‘The lunar calendar rules my life. Moonrise on the thirtieth of this month is at about quarter past eleven. You were out by less than an hour.’

I look around, and find the boy who gave the first answer. ‘To be completely fair, you aren’t wrong, either,’ I tell him, and the class. ‘My question was doubly tricky. Tanya spotted the word _must_. If I’d asked “how long _can_ I be a werewolf, your answer would be almost correct. Like most werewolves, I try to keep the wolf at bay until the last minute, but I _can_ transform at sunset. If you’re ever seriously worried about a rogue werewolf, the advice is simple; don’t go out after dark on a full moon night.’

‘That’s the when, now I want to tell you about the dangers werewolves pose.’ Slipping off my leather jacket, I hang it on the chair behind me and walk forwards. My sleeveless round-necked sweater covers my torso, but my shoulders and arms are bare. I walk along the front row of desks. Avril is the only one who spots the faint bite-mark on my shoulder, and my suspicions are confirmed.

‘Don’t stop there, miss,’ one of the boys at the back calls.

‘I’m not going to,’ I tell him.

Stepping back, I take up the stance I’ve practiced in my bedroom in front of Mark. Legs apart, thighs tight against my skirt; it’s not going anywhere. The side-zipped skirt has a high waistband. I pull my sweater up from inside it, revealing a sliver of flesh just above my navel. Silence falls. I reach for the zip. Most of my audience gasp.

Unzipping my skirt, I hold the waistband but let it fall open at the front. At Mark’s insistence I’m wearing a pair of low-waist boxer shorts, just in case the skirt falls despite my every precaution. Several of the students, particularly those in the front two rows, let out squeals of horror. I point at the raw, red, and ragged scars which run from my waistline down towards my crotch.

‘This is what happens when you get attacked by a werewolf. Lycanthropy is a cursed infection, and that means any injury inflicted by a werewolf is a cursed wound. Healers can mend broken bones and even reattach limbs, but no healing magic can undo a curse injury. Curse scars last forever. These ones came from Fenrir Greyback, at the Battle of Hogwarts.’

I conclude my commentary with the lie I tell myself every day, ‘Not every werewolf victim can hide their scars. I can, I’m lucky.’

After pulling down my sweater to cover the scars, I zip up my skirt and face my stunned and silent audience.

‘Werewolves can be dangerous, even when they aren’t transformed.’ I tell them. Walking up to the girls in the front row, I hold out my hands, and show them my lavender-coloured nails. ‘Like them?’ I ask. ‘Be honest.’

‘They’re false,’ Tanya tells me. ‘Good quality, but false.’

‘You, Mr “Don’t-stop-there” in the back row, what’s your name?’

‘Jacob, miss.’

‘I have a question for you, Jacob.’ His classmates turn and stare at him. ‘When did I become a werewolf?’ I ask.

‘Easy,’ he laughs. ‘The Battle of Hogwarts was the second of May, ninety-eight.’

‘The ninth anniversary was last month.’ I agree. ‘So, you think I’ve been a werewolf for nine years. Hands up everyone who thinks he’s correct.’

The tone of my voice and the expression on my face makes the students suspicious. About half of the hands began to move up, but some falter and fall back down. About one third of the hands remain raised. As I look around, more drop. Tanya and Avril never even looked like they would lift their hands.

‘You!’ I point to a smirking boy who is whispering something to “Don’t-stop-there” Jacob. ‘Read the first bullet point on the handout I’ve just given you!’

He leers, but does as I ask.

‘Lycanthropy is a cursed contagion. Department of Mysteries research on willing volunteers shows that the contagion is carried in the teeth and claws of a transformed lycanthrope. It appears that the contagion must enter the bloodstream directly. If a bite or scratch doesn’t draw blood, you’re safe.’ His voice betrays his disinterest.

‘A transformed werewolf…’ I repeat the important words, and wait. “Whisperer” shrugs. The ever-reliable Tanya’s hand shoots up. I allow her to answer.

‘The Battle of Hogwarts didn’t take place on a full moon night,’ she says.

‘Exactly. Greyback was human when he gave me those scars.’ I point to the barely visible scar on my shoulder. ‘This is where I was bitten. In March 2000 I got between Harry Potter and a werewolf.’ I wave the shouted questions aside. ‘That’s a story for my memoirs.’

I lift up my hands.

‘That’s why your fingernails are false.’ Tanya enlightens herself, and the entire class.

‘Exactly,’ I say. I don’t tell them that my false nails ensure the scratches I sometimes make on Mark’s back can be healed, or that the love bite I once made on his shoulder won’t. ‘I’m cursed, all werewolves are. That’s why people are frightened of us and that’s why, until relatively recently, we were discriminated against.’

‘Werewolf rights have changed a lot since I was at school. One of my Defence Against the Dark Arts Professors—the best one—was a werewolf. He was forced to hide that fact, and he was fired when people discovered his secret. I joined the Auror Office in 2000, and the Sentient Entity Rights Act was passed in 2002. Even so, many werewolves continue to hide their true nature. Not me, I’m out and proud.’

‘Despite the changes in the law, and despite the fact that there have been no confirmed werewolf attacks since early 2000, many werewolves don’t want people to know what they are. I can understand why. The prejudice still exists, and at the back of many werewolves’ minds lies the fear that the next Minister may not be so forward thinking. To me, it seems unlikely that we would ever be foolish enough to put an ignorant bigot—someone bent on undoing the progress we’ve made—in charge, but who knows?’

I again gesture at the image on the wall behind me.

‘We don’t look like that, we’re cursed, but we’re people. Like all werewolves, I use the new wolfsbane potion. I believe being open about what I am will change people’s perception of us. While I respect the decision of the others, those who hide their true nature, I disagree with it. Openness and honesty must lead to acceptance. That’s not a vain hope, is it? Some people will always hate us simply because we’re different. But everyone is different. Muggle-born, werewolf, tall, short, ginger, they’re all just things to point at! Why? It’s crazy isn’t it? We should celebrate our differences.’

‘Yes, I turn into a she-wolf once every four weeks but, other than Greyback, I have met very few werewolves who want to spread this curse. The new laws are clear. Being a werewolf isn’t a crime, deliberately infecting someone with lycanthropy is. I’m happy with that, happy to uphold the law! Those who use magic to kill or maim are subject to similar laws. The law is not about what we _are_ , it’s about what we _do_.’

‘If a wizard inflicts a cursed wound on a child, _he_ is evil, a criminal. Yes?’

Heads nod.

‘Perhaps he’s fat, or bald, or both. Will the headlines say: “We must keep children safe from fat bald wizards”?

They laugh at my stupid question. Most heads shake. Tanya glances guiltily at Avril. She, and a few others, know what my next words will be.

‘But, suppose a werewolf inflicts a cursed wound on a child—what will the headlines say?’

Silence falls, and there are a lot of guilty expressions.

‘Is no one prepared to answer that question?’ I ask. ‘Not even you, Tanya?’

‘It’ll blame all werewolves,’ she says quietly.

‘Exactly,’ I agree. ‘Think about that, when you think about werewolves. I’m not asking for preferential treatment, just equality. We’re all just like you—except when we’re like this.’

I flick my wand and the image behind me changes. My audience sees me in all my naked glory. I rarely look at the wolf, because—despite my brave words to these students—I like to pretend that she’s not really me. As she’s in my cage, in my bedroom, I can’t deny that I’m looking at myself. I stare at the image, I’m baring my teeth in a snarl. I was trying to smile. It seems wolves can’t smile.

‘That’s me.’ I admit. ‘Questions?’

‘Does the transformation hurt?’ asks Tanya, showing genuine concern.

‘Every time,’ I tell her.

‘Can we watch you transform, tonight?’ a boy enquires.

‘Definitely not.’

‘Why not?’ the girl next to him asks.

I remember my discussion with my boyfriend about this question. Mark’s advice was, “If they ask, tell them.”

‘Some werewolves transform fully clothed. When they turn back, their clothes return too. Padma—my friend—works in the Department of Mysteries. She calls them “reclusive werewolves”. I’m the other sort. I’m an “extrovert werewolf”. I was surprised when I found out, but none of my friends were!’

Most of the class laugh.

‘If I’m clothed when I transform, the wolf shreds whatever I’m wearing, and when I transform back, I’m naked,’ I admit.

‘So where do you go, what do you do?’ Tanya asks.

‘That iron cage is in my bedroom,’ I say, pointing at the photograph. ‘Tonight, I’ll go home, get undressed, and sit in the cage. I don’t need to imprison myself, because the potion keeps me rational. I only use the cage because, like a lot of werewolves, I want the extra level of security. If the potion failed to work—it never has, but—if I completely lost myself to the wolf I’m stuck in the cage and I still can’t hurt anyone. My boyfriend locks me in, I transform, I growl and prowl, and then I transform back, and he lets me out.’

‘If there are no more questions, I’ll end with this. Werewolves are ordinary people who have contracted lycanthropy. Yes, we suffer from a potentially dangerous contagion, but it’s one that can be managed by the wolfsbane potion. It can only be transmitted by one of us deliberately performing a criminal act. Why would I, why would anyone, want to go out to bite someone on full moon night? Perhaps that’s a question for your next lecturer. She’s hanging from the rafters at the back of the room, she’s much more dangerous than I am, and not one of you has even realised she’s here.’

Heads turn in panic.


	2. Vampirism

**Vampirism**

I hide myself in the rafters at the back of the empty classroom, behind the last row of desks. As the colony, I am hundreds of tiny individuals. I spread myself thinly, roosting in the darkest recesses. The students enter in dribs and drabs and, at two o’clock, Lavender makes her entrance. She’s in fashionable Muggle garb, and immaculately made up.

Before she begins, Lavender’s eyes sweep the room. I am fairly confident she glimpses me hanging upside-down in the shadows. She’s both an Auror and a werewolf, attuned to her surroundings and trained to observe. That training also makes her difficult to read, even for me.

* * *

Lavender loves drama. There are times I believe that everything about her is an act. When she finishes her lecture, she gives me an introduction that both proves she’s seen me and worries the students. I don’t disappoint. Releasing my collective grip on the beams I drop and, with a frantic fluttering of tiny wings, I swoop low over the students’ heads. Panic, and a few screams, ensue.

I make my dramatic entrance by swirling around an entirely unperturbed Lavender. As the students stare, I coalesce the colony into a cloud. From the cloud, it’s a simple matter to bring the bats together and become me.

‘I’ll leave you to the mercies of my friend Camelia Tepes, the vampire Auror!’ says Lavender portentously. Lifting the chair on which she’s hung her coat, she moves it to the wall, sits, and watches me.

I considered wearing Muggle clothes, but quickly dismissed the idea. Instead, I appear in front of the now nervous class in long black coat, white blouse, grey cravat, and calf-length black skirt. My Auror uniform is my shield.

The outfit tells people I’m an Auror. It’s often all they see, and it reassures them. Because of my entrance, the students already know what I am. Some fear the monster, and my showy arrival has intensified their reaction. I hope that the uniform will calm them, but some in my audience will only ever see the monster.

I remind myself that I am a monster, and for that reason they should be very wary of me and my kind. As I look around, I realise that too many students are treating my dramatic entrance as a thrilling joke. Perhaps the uniform was a mistake after all. Do they see nothing but the Auror Office’s tame vampire? I need to increase the tension.

‘So many hearts beating so quickly,’ I begin. ‘So much hot, sweet, blood! I can hear it rushing through your veins.’

I touch my tongue to my lips. A few of the teens whimper. I stare, and give them a smile that reveals my elongated incisors. Silence falls, and wands are grasped. Having increased the tension, I put on my human face, and begin matter-of-factly.

‘As Lavender has told you, my name is Camelia Tepes. I was born in the year 1766, in the Grand Principality of Transylvania. When I died, in 1787, I believed that the Transylvanian vampire who killed me to be very, very, old.’

I hear the excited murmurs. They are expecting me to name drop.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I say. ‘His name wasn’t Vlad, it was Pavel. He wasn’t a Count, he was a soldier. And no one but me remembers him. He wasn’t even old. He was created in the late 1600’s and he was destroyed in 1812, at Borodino. He joined the Emperor Napoleon’s army for the blood, but the Russian campaign finished him.’

‘Pavel killed me three months before my twenty-first birthday, and I was buried in a village in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. I was alive for little more than twenty years and have been dead for more than two-hundred-and-twenty. I barely remember what life felt like.’

‘I left my homeland in 1848, the Year of Revolution. By then, Napoleon’s empire was a memory, and Transylvania was part of the Austrian Empire, the Kaisertum Österreich. I made my way across Europe, and finally arrived in Norfolk in 1852. I have been on the island of Britain for more than one hundred-and-fifty years. I say “been on”, not “lived on”, because some people take issue with my use of that phrase. I’m dead, and some argue that I cannot _live_ anywhere.’

‘Is this matter of philosophy, or grammar? You decide.’

‘Regardless, I have been “British” for more than a century and a half. During my long existence, I have seen Muggle wars and Wizard wars; I have watched cities, and Muggle ingenuity, grow.’

‘Why am I telling you all this? Because you need to understand that everything changes. You are not the person you were ten years ago. You have aged and learned and changed. A lot can change in ten years. You cannot conceive the changes that will occur in almost two-and-a-half centuries. I do not age, and I have not physically changed for more than two centuries, but I have learned and I have changed in here!’ I tap the side of my head. ‘I am very different to the person I was in the 1780s, or the 1880s, or even the 1980s.’

I pause, momentarily lost in distracting memories. The 1880s where when I made my greatest mistake. By the 1980’s I was partially redeemed. I suspect that I will never be more than partially redeemed.

‘I rather enjoyed the 1980s.’ I smile at the memories. My journey from 70s punk through proto-goth to 80s new romantic was a wild one. It’s to easy to lose myself in memories. I force myself back on topic. ‘But this isn’t a history lesson.’

‘I am a vampire. For a brief period, I was a witch, but my magic died when I did. I am a contradiction. I am dead, yet I walk and talk and feed. I have friends, and family. I am a person, but a person whose continued existence depends on my drinking the blood of innocents, and spending a part of each day resting in soil taken from my grave. Does this frighten you?’

A few heads nod, but some of the students are beginning to believe that my words are merely an act. One or two shake their heads and smile at me.

‘Even if you are not frightened of me, you should be wary. People, both Muggle and magical, romanticise what I am,’ I tell them firmly. ‘That may be the greatest success of the vampire. Even before Bram Stoker’s remarkably accurate text, many stories of vampires were gothic romances. The stories told to you, and to the Muggles, paint us as passionate, powerful, beautiful and tragic. You should know that several of these tales were written by vampires. Those stories worked so well that we no longer need to make excuses for actions. You do it for us. The myths, the romance, the rationalisations of our murderous behaviour, all are believed and expanded upon by our foolish victims!’

‘One Muggle tale I read recently claims that we sparkle in the sunlight. Ridiculous! That particular author gets very little about us correct. Like many others, she mistakes our power and our thirst for blood for virility.’

I look around the room. I have to pick on someone, and the youth in the back row who called “Don’t stop there,” to Lavender was whispering rude and lewd comments about her all through her lesson. He may simply be a seventeen-year-old blowhard, talking big to his friends. I’m certain he’d blame his behaviour on his hormones, or his upbringing, but I don’t care. I have no wish to hear his excuses. He must learn to accept the consequences of his behaviour. Even after two centuries I find his form of blustering machismo annoying. I’ve seen the dark places misogyny can take men. That’s what always made his type my preferred prey.

‘I need a volunteer. You!’ I point to him. ‘Come here, please.’

He smiles knowingly, and winks at his friends. Can he really think that I’m attracted to him? I may look twenty, but I have grandchildren who are older than he is. He swaggers to the front of the room, and looks down at me. It is obvious from his stance that he’s unafraid of a mere woman. I’m now certain that he regards females as inferior.

The fight for universal suffrage was, I think, when I first began to sympathise with humanity. They strove to change, to better themselves. I, like the rest of my kind, did not; we merely survived. That realisation didn’t stop me from killing, not then, but it planted the seed that future events would make sprout into life.

I am small and slender, and I know the “weak and feeble woman” ploy will always work. Kind men try to help me because it’s in their nature, cruel men try to take advantage. I always preferred to hunt the cruel men. Perhaps I have always tried to justify my killings, to pretend that most of the lives I took were deserving of death. They were not.

My victim stands next to me. Six feet of muscle and testosterone towering above me. He sees a pale, black-haired waif, and foolishly believes that he is in control of his situation. It’s time to disabuse him, and his classmates.

‘Give me your hands, please,’ I ask, stretching out my own.

Winking at his friends, he reaches forward eagerly, and grabs my hands. The smile instantly falls from his face, and he tries to pull away. I’m too strong. He can’t break my grip, I’m braced against his pull, and he finally sees the predator in my stare. His reaction is everything I want.

His eager grip; his reaction when he realises that, because I’m dead, my hands are corpse-cold; his shiver at my touch; and his panic when he discovers that he can’t free himself.

‘Cushioning Charm, please,’ I say, as silence blankets the room.

I release my struggling victim. He staggers, and tries to retreat. He wants to escape, but I’m too fast. Grabbing the front of his robes in one hand, I lift him and throw him twenty feet across the room. He bounces off the charm Lavender has cast. As he struggles to his feet, with nothing hurt but his pride, I return to my theme.

‘There are two things the authors usually get right. One, I’m cold, and two, I’m strong,’ I tell my audience.

‘I’m a cold, dead thing with no heartbeat. I’m fast, and strong enough to throw this young man across the room. I’m a vampire, and I’m dangerous. You should never forget that!’

I have their complete attention.

‘You,’ I point to the boy. ‘Go back to your seat, and if I hear any more whispers from you, I’ll see that you get detention.’

I turn my attention to the class. ‘I’m not here to make you like me, I’m here to try to help you understand what I am. I hope that I can do as good a job as Lavender. I’m here to teach you about vampires, and to teach you the differences between werewolves and vampires.’

‘It starts with how we come to be. Werewolves are people who transform into a mindless monster every full moon. Lycanthropy wants to spread. If left untreated, it will drive werewolves to infect others through biting and scratching. But, as Lavender has told you, even before the wolfsbane potion, most werewolves would try to imprison themselves to prevent this. Modern magical medicine controls their primal urges, but even without the wolfsbane potion, lycanthropy is a contagion inflicted on an unwilling victim by an unthinking beast.’

‘Some vampires will tell you that vampirism is also a magical contagion. They are merely looking for sympathy. If you’re clever, and sensible, there are things you—as a society—can do to reduce your chances of becoming a werewolf. Like the vaccinations Muggles use, the wolfsbane potion may eventually see the end of werewolves. That won’t work for vampires. Can anyone tell me why?’

The hand of the blonde girl, Tanya, is again the first in the air. I choose a boy in the second row instead.

‘You’re already dead, and immortal,’ he tells me.

‘Exactly! The only way to end vampirism is for you to slaughter us. That has been tried a few times over the centuries, but we are very difficult to destroy and, frankly, we enjoy a bloodbath more than you do. Does anyone know how to terminate a vampire?’

‘Wooden stake through the heart,’ someone calls out.

I sigh.

‘It’s a common fallacy, especially amongst Muggles, that we can only be destroyed by having a wooden stake driven through our heart. You’re not wrong, a stake through the heart will work. It would kill you, too! It would end anyone, vampire, wizard or Muggle. Incidentally, note that I say “destroy” and “end” rather than kill. You can’t kill me, because I’m already dead.’

‘Ending a vampire requires you to rapidly release the blood within them, preferably during the hours of daylight. You should read “Dracula”, it’s closer to the truth than most other tales. I have no idea why but, despite the ending of that book, everyone believes the Count was killed by a stake through the heart.’

‘Dracula’s throat was cut with a kukri, and a bowie knife was driven into his heart. Brutal and efficient. A knife is a lot sharper than a stake.’

‘I am full of blood, but it isn’t mine. To destroy me, you must release it. Beheading is probably the best method. But your biggest problem will be getting close enough to me to do it. If I turn into bats, or mist, you’ll have problems. I can do both!’

‘What you must remember is that I need to rest in grave soil. Find my lair, find me at rest, and you’ve got me when I’m helpless. That’s why I didn’t tell you where I was buried. I have four coffins of soil from my Transylvanian grave in Britain, and the Auror Office knows where they are. That’s a condition of my employment. Destroy them, and I’m definitely finished.’

‘Keeping me away from you is easier. I cannot enter a house unless I’m invited, nor will I approach you if you wear garlic. A word of advice; if you wear garlic, no one else will approach you, either!’

‘The most important difference is choice! Lavender didn’t choose to become a werewolf. I’ve met several werewolves over the centuries. All were attacked. Not one of them chose their fate. This is not true for vampires. I _chose_ to become a vampire. Every vampire makes that choice.’

‘I chose to die so that I could exist forever, and I made that choice knowing that my continued survival would drive me to murder. When I made my choice, I knew I would need fresh blood.’

‘Becoming a vampire is a more complex process than becoming a werewolf. Over several nights, including the full moon night, I must feed from you. On the full moon night, I must open a vein, and you must willingly drink my blood. It’s not my blood of course, it’s yours, but I’ve tainted it. After you’ve tasted my blood, I have until the next full moon to kill you!’

I take two rapid steps toward the students. Wands are drawn. I pause. The room is more silent than a grave. I know. In a grave, you can hear the worms.

‘I haven’t killed anyone since 1945,’ I assure them. ‘And I haven’t created a new vampire since Jack, in 1888.’

‘Even if you drink my blood, you can change your mind. You can walk away, protect yourself. If I don’t kill you before the next full moon, you’ll recover. Otherwise, I will suck every last drop of blood from you! At sunset on the third night after your death, you will rise, weak and completely bloodless. During this night you must replace the blood you no longer have. You must find a victim, and completely drain them of blood. You _must_ kill someone.’

I look at my horrified audience, and try to explain the morality of the world I grew up in.

‘I was born in a time when public executions were common. Anyone, especially the poor, could be killed for even a petty crime. Torture, and slavery were commonplace. It’s easy to regard _others_ as lesser beings. People—whether magical or Muggle—de-humanise others all the time, simply because they are different in some meaningless way. Skin colour, religion, and nationality are the three most ridiculous reasons the Muggles use. To most vampires, those things are meaningless. You are lesser beings because you are prey. Does the fox care whether it eats rabbit or chicken?’

‘If you ever meet a vampire, forget about tragedy or romance, remember that you are looking at a walking corpse who _has_ killed, probably many times. No matter what they say, every vampire you meet will have killed. I am a vampire, I am a murderer. There is no easy way for you to determine whether or not a vampire’s intentions are friendly. My advice is simple: if a vampire is trying to be friendly, they want to kill you! Err on the side of caution. I won’t mind.’

‘Lavender mentioned the Sentient Entities Rights Act of 2002. It gives all creatures who speak, from house elves to vampires, the right to abide freely in society. The only requirement placed on us is that we agree to comply with its laws. Very few house elves have used the act to gain their freedom. Almost all werewolves have embraced the rights of citizenship so long denied to them.’

‘There are only a few score vampires in Britain and, in theory, we have always been subject to wizarding law. In practice magical folk usually ignored us, so long as we killed only Muggles. I have not killed anyone since 1945, but I know that many of my fellow vampires have. Many believe that, because they are dead, there is no reason for them to obey the laws of the living. They are wrong.’

‘Perhaps they can be persuaded, but it won’t be easy. It took me one hundred and sixty years, and an adopted family, to realise that murder is a crime.’

‘Questions?’

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone really wants to know how Lavender became a werewolf, they should read "Hunters and Prey".


End file.
